


With New Eyes

by nocturnalKnight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background mentions of Ashe/Ingrid and Felix/Annette, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Dialogue Heavy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Expressive Talkative Byleth, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Mostly takes place post time skip, Mutual Pining, Romance, Snarky and Soft, Spoilers for all Sylvain supports, slight spoilers for blue lions route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-10-12 11:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20563595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnalKnight/pseuds/nocturnalKnight
Summary: Sylvain gets roasted, grows up, almost dies, and falls in love, mostly in that order.Byleth is a blade in all ways but one.A retelling/fleshing out of the Sylvain romance. Ft. expressive, sarcastic, actually has a personality Byleth.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Reused some support conversations, but cut off some of the dialogue. "..." usually signifies where it's been cut or summarized. Mostly done for efficiency's sake.
> 
> Some liberties taken RE: continuity, and the town of Guilin.

She’s eating dango on a bench when it happens.

“Me? Cheat on you, baby? I’d never.” 

She snorts quietly, watching the vaudeville hi-jinks ensue from her position on a bench just two feet away from the unfortunate girl who landed herself a red headed pain in the ass. Sylvain spots her in her light armor, and after the girl storms off, she tries to hide her smirk with a friendly _oh-hey-there_ smile. It doesn’t work. 

“So, do you enjoy spying on people, Professor? You look like you’ve got something to say, so say it.”

She smiles a truer, realer smile then, and Sylvain is suddenly reminded of Petra’s expression when she hunts. It’s a grin of someone sighting easy prey. 

“It’s been fun watching you get shot down or shoot yourself in the foot these past few days. Sure, that girl is heartbroken, but she’s free of you now, isn’t she? And that speech – mediocre at best. I expected better from you. You’re getting sloppy.”

She gets up and walks past him, lobbing her dango stick into a nearby garbage can in a perfect arc. She pats his shoulder as she passes by and says, “Have fun by yourself.”

Then she’s gone. 

He stares out into the now starkly empty pathway. “Well. That didn’t end how I was expecting it to.”

* * *

She’s on the same bench when it happens again and she catches sight of a crimson flash of hair. She sighs. She likes this dango stand. If Sylvain is going to make it his break up spot, that’s a problem. It’s funny watching it a couple times, but after that it’s just sad to watch. It spoils the flavor. She watches him watch the girl walk off, and she hopes he doesn’t turn around, but because fate is a shit, he does. 

“Oh, Professor. Heh, I didn't realize you were there. If we keep running into each other like this, people will start to talk.” She makes a face, by which she frowns slightly. “Hey, don't get mad! I was joking. They'll say, "Sylvain and the professor are on the prowl." Heh...” 

“I fell for that girl...It’s just complicated.”

She shakes her head. “You’re complicated.”

As the conversation continues, she’s still not on board with his bullshit, but she understands better. Then, he threatens to kill her. 

She’s disappointed but not surprised. He gives her some paper thin crap about how “...ladies love a dark and brooding noble” with a wink. 

She looks at him. “You want the life I had,” she says. “I get that, but taking it out on me won’t help you. Drowning your sorrows in meaningless flings and hiding behind a stupid mask - yes, I know you’re smart, I’ve seen your Reason scores - won’t help you.”

He can only say, “You don’t know me,” feebly in response. 

She shrugs. “Sure.”

He walks away feeling like a coward. 

* * *

He watches her from then on. Not, like, stalking, but just...paying attention to her when they’re both in the dining hall or making a point to attend her seminars. Yeah, fine, at first it’s from jealousy, but also because he can’t look away from her. She’s got everything just given to her and he hates it, but she’s actually doing good things with it and helping people instead of messing about like him. In truth, he’s a little ashamed. 

They have a notable moment, outside the dining hall one day. It’s when they cross paths in between the hedge mazes, in the evening. 

She doesn’t even look at him as she passes by. “If you’re going to try and kill me, go right ahead and do your best, rich boy,” and she turns slightly to look at him over her shoulder, grins a wolf’s smile at him then walks away. 

Goddess does she remind him of Felix at times. 

“Why do I find that attitude hot?” He wonders aloud. 

Someone in the courtyard over the next hedge, who sounds suspiciously like Dorothea, yells, “Shut _up_, Sylvain!” Followed by giggles. Mercedes and Annette, most likely. 

He is surrounded by brutal, gorgeous girls he has very little chance with. Alas. 

* * *

So he flirts with her. So he follows her to the Goddess Tower. It doesn’t mean anything. As she’s pointed out, he flirts with anything that moves. Of course she’s going to turn him down, but damn it, she’s looking incredible in her sparkling deep blue dress held up with three silver spaghetti straps on each shoulder. She hasn’t looked at him once during the ball, and it’s driving him crazy. He wants her to say yes, despite himself. To at least see if he could ever hope to have her despite shooting himself so many times in the foot in front of her. 

“My Crest and yours...”

She shakes her head. “Sylvain, you know I don’t care about that. And if that’s why you’re proposing, it’s a pretty shit reason.”

“So if I said it was because I love you, you’d accept?”

She laughs. “Please. You say that way too easily. Your words are pretty, but they have no credibility behind them.” 

“Ouch. The truth really does hurt.” He feigns a wounded stance, hand over his heart. 

“Speaking of - I’d like to know the true motivations behind you first threatening to kill me then offering to marry me. A little inconsistent, don’t you think?” She shifts her weight from one foot to another, and he’s almost tempted to say she’s enjoying locking horns with him right now.

“Maybe I just like keeping you on your toes.” He shoots back.

“Please. Maybe you’re just crazy.”

“Crazy about you.”

She finally breaks into a smile then. “You never give up, do you?”

“Not if I really care about something.”

She shakes her head. “Sylvain, you don’t know anything about me.” 

“You’re quick witted, patient with people who aren’t me,” and she cracks a grin at that, “unbelievably powerful but still humble, blunt, you love making tea and trying all kinds of new foods, you don’t smile much but when you do, it’s incredible, and I know it’s only around us. You’re an amazing teacher who takes the time out to talk to all of us, even when we piss you off and by we I mean me. And yeah, it helps that you’re beautiful, too. Who wouldn’t be jealous of you?”

“Flattery won’t erase threats,” she says, level. He can’t tell if anything he said got through to her, but she’s still smiling. 

“I wanted to explain,” he says, “and you don’t have to understand. But will you dance with me?” 

“I don’t understand you at all. And also, there’s no music.”

“Professor-”

She walks towards him and touches him once, briefly, a hand on his hair. “Good night, Sylvain.” He looks at her, so close, breath in his throat, and then she’s gone. 

Then Jeralt dies, she gets possessed (??!?) by the progenitor god, Dimitri goes mad, and by the time his feelings have caught up with his brain and he’s realized he actually does like her more than resents her she’s pronounced missing, assumed dead. 

The next five years are a haze of war, growing up too fast too quickly as Felix and Ingrid do the same from a distance. He misses his professor. He even misses Dimitri being uptight and lecturing him. He misses Dedue’s cooking and Flayn’s cheerfulness. He misses Ingrid beating him up(okay, not really, plus she still does so whenever he sees her). He misses Mercedes bringing him tea and Annette singing in the halls and teasing Felix about her because dumbass he may be, he can tell when his best friend likes a girl, at least. He misses being a 19 year old fuck up with nowhere to go but up. He’s been fighting too much, loving too little, arguing with his father about the obligations of the family and “how to properly shape up”. And he’s trying to help keep the Empire from tearing the Kingdom down. He’s tired. They all are. The future feels like a storm coming, and none of them are ready. The only good thing is that he’s changed for the better, and he’s stopped being as much of a sexist ass.

Then, it’s the millennium festival, and she emerges from the night as if she never left their side. A blink of mint hair and glowing red sword next to an unreal ghastly monster previously known as his future king. It’s all so fast, and he can barely release his breath that he’s been holding for five years before they’re on the battlefield again together. 

They’re perfectly in sync there, and it works so well right up until it doesn’t anymore. She isn’t thinking about who’s going where properly and she’s idling too long before he takes a big hit meant for her. The poisoned arrow sinks into his back right through his armor and he nearly collapses off his horse and his battalion withdrew a while back, and she’s running towards him while the rest finish up the battle. She strips off her cloak for his dressing, gives him antitoxin and she props his head up on her lap. He’s pale and cold as a sheet, sweating, and while he thinks he should be fine she’s still watching him in pain, and who knows what was actually in that poison. He cracks open an eyelid to look up at her worried face and he chuckles slightly then breaks off into coughs. “I always knew you liked me.” 

“Sylvain. Don’t talk. Just stay awake with me, please.” She says, clipped. She needs to get him back to the monastery. Right now. Manuela will know what to do. 

He smiles faintly. “If I survive this, go on a date with me?” 

“Sylvain,” she says, wanting to both laugh and cry. “Only you could turn this into an opportunity to hit on me. You haven’t even seen me in five years.” 

“Yes or no?” He presses. 

“Okay, yes. You wore me down. I’ll go out on one date with you, you incorrigible flirt. Just...be okay.” 

“I will be if you’re there when I wake up,” he says. He closes his eyes. 

The last thing he hears is her saying, “By the Goddess Sothis, if it takes only death to make you stop flirting, I’m going to be really pissed off,” and he doesn’t know what that means at all before he drifts away. 

* * *

The next thing he knows he’s in the infirmary. He feels halfway fine; way better, though there’s still a gnawing ache in his shoulder. He gets up, Manuela comes over and fusses over him. He bugs and cajoles her until she begrudgingly says he can resume extremely light service tomorrow. Guarding only. He smiles, and after she’s made him drink more water than he knew possible and filled him in on the current situation, he leaves wearing his old school uniform. All his civilian clothes are back in his room, which had been threadbare and empty but still usable when he’d arrived. There’s so much deja vu he can’t stand it. All of them together again, with her...who’d barely aged due to her goddess powers, no doubt.

He sure does know how to pick ‘em, he thinks. _I’ve hit on many extraordinary women, but I can’t offer anything to a literal goddess. _

He goes to lie down in his own dorm bed, but not before Ingrid and Felix both make sure he’s okay. He flirts with some girls along the way, plays the sympathy card, then he stops in a secluded bit of the cathedral to breathe through his shoulder pain. He was out for three days to heal to this point, and it still hurts. 

He doesn’t realize she’s there until he turns around. He bites down on the instinctive _we’ve got to stop meeting like this._ Instead, he watches her blatantly check him out. He’s shocked, to say the least, but flattered. 

“Wow, Professor, I mean we’re alone right now but this is in public! Like what you see?” 

She very faintly turns red, and he finds that so cute. “I’m not - I - I was checking to see if you were alright,” she stammers out. She stands back to look at him. 

“Look at you, Sylvain Jose Gautier. You grew up well. I’m glad you’re okay.” She says wistfully, after regaining her composure. 

He ducks his head. “Aw, thanks, Professor. You know just what to say to a guy. You, on the other hand, look as beautiful as ever. I’m not sure how they can improve on perfection, but-” 

“Careful before your head falls out of your ass and you knock yourself out and get another injury, Gautier,” she retorts sharply, at which he laughs loudly. Then, rubbing her forehead and shaking her head at herself, softening her tone, she says, “How’s your injury? You got hurt protecting me...”

“It's not bad. I was even told I'd be cleared for service starting tomorrow. Besides, I got this scar fighting for you. It's almost like a medal or something.”

“Didn’t you want to kill me?”

“I certainly meant it when I said it, but… When I thought you were going to be killed for real, my reflexes kicked in. I reacted without thinking. It doesn't mean I've stopped being jealous of you. But, come on, I can't help looking up to you. If I'd had the guts to run away from home, I wonder if I would have cared as little about my Crest as you do yours...”

“You didn’t have the courage?”

“No... But if I thought I could have escaped, I would have tried. I'd leave behind House Gautier and the life of a nobleman...and anybody who knew I had a Crest. ...I have no right to complain when I am surrounded by people who would give anything to bear a Crest but do not. Now women smile at me for the same reason my parents adored me...and my brother wanted me dead. And I have to meet them all with a smile and a wink because I have a Crest. The women who just want to use me to become nobility? I hate them. Though, in the end...that's just an easy answer. I don't even know how I truly feel about it all.”

“Wow,” She says. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“Goddess, don’t- never apologize to me, you were,” he laughs, “right about me. I think that’s one of the reasons I like you, you never liked me for my Crest, or anything. You were honest. I was an utter shit. Still am, come to think of it.”

After a moment of her processing this information, she looks at him with something new in her eyes. “You’ve matured, too. Who would have thought,” she says. Sunlight is streaming through the stained glass windows of the cathedral, and she’s never looked at him that tenderly before. It’s kind of...terrifying. He wants, for a moment, so desperately, to hold her. Or to run away. Whichever one.

He blurts out, “I know you’re going to think I’m hitting on you or whatever, but do you...do you ever think – if I’d run away, and joined up with you and Jeralt somehow, met you as teenagers, would you have liked me?”

“Hypothetically?”

He nods.

She says quietly, after a long silence, “I would’ve had a big crush on you, probably.”

“What, really?” He tries not to read into that, but inwardly, he’s cheering and dancing.

“I’m going to assume you were as absolutely ridiculous then as you are now. You would’ve driven Father crazy, and I would’ve been jealous of your ability to be so free and open with your emotions, and you would’ve still managed to make me laugh even as I strove to dislike you.” She looks over to the side, pointedly away from him. “And you aren’t...completely unfortunate looking.”

He’s trying so hard to be restrained, to show her he’s more than a silvertongued lothario, but it’s so hard when she’s this stupidly adorable and straightforward. It almost makes him think he has a chance.

“You...are too cute, Professor. I’m...really glad you’re finally going on that date with me.” Okay, somewhat restrained.

He expects for her to protest now that he’s fine and no longer under physical duress. But instead, she just asks, “Where and when?”

“Meet me outside the monastery four days hence, we’re headed into town for their late millennium festival celebration, since we can’t afford to put it on ourselves. I’m giving you that day off I promised, way back when.”

“Should we be doing that when all this war planning is going on?”

He smiles. “C’mon. You deserve a break. You just woke up from healing from the impossible and already fighting. Just...be with me for a second.”

* * *

He’s always been jealous of her, always a little obsessed and resentful and admiring. It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid because she represents everything he always wanted but never got to have. To have the power of a Crest without it’s burdens or responsibilities or pressures and who never had to care about them, either. She’s one of the strangest people he’s ever met, and it’s an uphill battle trying to win her over without his usual flattery or noble status. But that’s just it, isn’t it? If she ends up liking him, despite everything, she’ll be one of the few people in the world to like him for him. That’s what he thought when he was younger, at least.

Now he’s realizing that, after all his Freudian excuses have fallen away, and his jealousy is mostly gone, he’s about to go on a date (pity or no) with an incredible woman. A sharp-tongued yet kind workaholic warrior, who’s seen the worst of him and hardly ever the best of him, and that’s when his two brain cells rub together and finally make a spark and he realizes oh _shit_ he needs to turn this around so quickly.

* * *

She doesn’t know how to feel about him after all that. She thought he was just another typical, lazy rich boy, but she’s learned more about him and the Crest system. She also has less sympathy for his girls now, though she doesn’t agree with his methods at all. She doesn’t know what to think. After hearing about him and Dedue, too, she shifts her image of him. Yes, she’s always known he was secretly a good guy, but that doesn’t make this...anything. She made a promise, she’s going to keep her word, and then go back to thinking of him as her student, regardless of the fact that he’s now theoretically older than her. She tries not to think too hard about the whole five years she was gone.

Five years. Can a spoiled 19 year old boy change and grow better after five years?

A voice, suspiciously like Sothis’ in her mind: _He risked his life for yours._

She replies _I barely know him. _

_Then why do you know his favorite tea? And you helped him when his brother’s bandits ran amok. And you always smiled back then whenever you saw him, Ingrid and Felix together. You used to search him out for meals, too, and you did think that he grew up very well when you first saw him- _

She shushes the familiar voice. _Never mind. Forget about it. _

Tinkling, bright laughter. _You remain a foolish child._

* * *

“This isn’t a real date,” she tells herself as she puts on what little makeup Mercedes, Annette and Dorothea have taught her to use. Lipstick, mascara. She ties on the wrap dress that Annette lent her, a cute sundress with a floral pattern. Then she surreptitiously sneaks out early in the morning, trying not to be spotted (the gatekeeper spots her sneaking out and she runs off before he can announce her to everyone else in the marketplace and sprinting out the back way).

_Not a real date._

He’s an undeniable figure on her horizon, and she speeds up to join him. He turns around to look at her, and she notes his outfit: a dark green tunic layered over a long-sleeved white shirt, a brown bag slung over his shoulder, wearing beat down, red riding pants. He looks hopeful, and handsome, and everything like she shouldn’t be allowed to have. She wants to run away. She could’ve endured a date with insufferable playboy Sylvain, but she knows full well that was a facade. She’s been gone five years, he’s grown up, and this? This could be real.

He’s smiling, and yes, blatantly ogling, but she’d be hypocritical right now to point that out.

“Pro- Byleth! You- um, wow- hi, how are you -” He waves, slightly, looking awkward, stumbling over his words.

“I’m...fine. Are you okay? You’ve never called me by my name before.”

“You just...ah, never mind. Can I? Call you by your name? Sorry.” He rubs his neck with his hand, and she begins to twig that he’s...nervous. Just like her.

She nods. “So...what’s the plan?”

He visibly regains his composure and gets to walking alongside her, towards the direction of the nearest town, Guilin. “The late millennium festival celebrations are being held here, at least on the Kingdom side. They’re still trying to put it on, because we’ve given them hope by beginning work on the monastery. It’s inspiring to see, and I wanted to support and share it with you.”

“I thought you wouldn’t care about commoners,” she says. “You clearly don’t have much sympathy for the common girls you lead on.”

He winces. “Fair point.”

She takes pity on him. “But you’ve stopped doing that. Right?”

He nods. “Yeah. I swear, I’ve changed – sorry. That speech _is_ too rehearsed. But I really am trying to be a better guy. I still flirt, I’m just – used to it, but I’m not accepting dates anymore. It’s best to just tell them to heap their empty praise elsewhere.”

She looks at him. He notices her gaze and, assuming something else entirely, he explains:

“Usually I try to hide who I am, so, uh, I tried to borrow Ignatz’s spare pair of glasses and decided on no armor, so...”

She shakes her head. “Glasses or not, your hair is a dead giveaway.”

“So is yours!”

She touches her pale green hair flowing freely and laughs. “Fair enough,” she says. “How are we doing this without causing a big stir?”

“Hats.”

“Your great idea is hats?”

He hands her a floppy sun hat, admittedly that goes well with her dress, as he dons a very familiar hat himself.

“Did you steal that from Dorothea’s room?”

He shrugs. “I asked for a loan. She conceded, but only because it’s you I’m taking out. She also threatened to kill me if I did anything to you.”

“Good girl.”

“Also,” he gives her a side glance, “you look...amazing.”

She flushes, and he’s already grinning like a cat with cream. “You’re shameless.”

“And you’re gorgeous.”

She shakes her head. “How do you just..._say_ these things?”

“Don’t know. Is it working?”

She bats him with her arm, smiling ever-so-slightly. “You...are _ridiculous. _Let’s go.”

* * *

They go to an amateur theater putting on a re-enactment of the battle between Nemesis and Seiros, during which props fall over, he sneaks her some candy he found in her pocket when it gets too boring, and whispers funny commentary in her ear the whole time. “I forgot you loved opera and art,” she whispers back.

“This isn’t art, it’s torture,” he replies. “Why did I do this again? Right, because the nearest opera house is in Fhirdiad. Remind me to take you there sometime.”

“Someone’s getting ahead of himself.”

“Can’t a guy dream? A little wartime motivation for one of your generals?”

“Keep dreaming, Gautier,” she says, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

They’re discussing the controversial end of the play that suggests Nemesis was more morally gray than church doctrine necessarily dictates, which somehow spirals into a conversation about morally gray villains in fiction. She, Sylvain, Ashe, Ingrid and Ignatz used to have a book club that used to meet when she was still their professor. Surprisingly, Sylvain has fond memories of them together in the library, poring over fairy tales and watching Ingrid light up.

“Hey, Byleth. I’ve got a question for you.”

“Yes?”

“You used that book club to try and hook Ashe and Ingrid up, didn’t you?”

She stares straight in front of her as they continue to meander through the streets.

“You’re not going to answer that. Probably smart. I approve. He might even be good enough for our Ingrid.”

* * *

They wind through a little community garden with a tiny pond, set up with lanterns around what little greenery remains. It’s small, tranquil and utterly quiet, and he motions for her to sit on the bench and he produces a picnic basket from underneath it. She almost laughs.

“You planned this ahead of time, didn’t you?” She asks, smirking. “Am I special, or is this a practiced move?”

He stops for a second while unfurling the meal he’s brought, as if in thought. “I definitely haven’t done this for anyone else.”

She opens her mouth to say something, registers what he says and his sincerity, and closes it. She shakes her head as he offers her some cheese. He’s brought curried chicken and rice along with it, along with some wine. “Sylvain, what are you doing?”

He tries to ignore the undercurrent of her question. “Pouring you a glass?”

She gracefully takes the proffered beverage and sips, but not before saying gravely, “Are you really going to make me say it?”

He sets down his own glass and sighs. “I know you’ve only seen the worst of me, and I regret that. All of it. I’m doing all of this to, in my own way, to thank you.”

“For what?”

“Before I met you, I'd gone my whole life not knowing there was another way for me to live. About Crests, about...just being a good person in general. So from the bottom of my heart...I'm glad we met.”

She looks down, trying to will her cheeks not to warm. “I’m glad we met too. You...taught me to enjoy pausing. To live life with a little more...ease and silliness. And without you and Lorenz around,” she says, her wicked smile hidden behind her glass for only a moment, “Who would make me laugh?”

He drops his head and groans. “Oh, crap. You overheard us?”

“Who could pass up an opportunity to see two fully grown noble men make complete fools of themselves?”

“We were 19,” he defends weakly, but screw it, he’s enjoying seeing her smile. Too bad she still thinks of him as a flirtatious clown.

Before he can even register it, she leans in and pecks him on the cheek. Soft lips and lavender mixed with bergamot overwhelm his senses for a second before she darts away, now visibly pink under a curtain of green hair. She looks like a wood nymph, hidden in this little alcove.

“Thank you for saving my life,” she says shyly, and he’s wanting so much to press his lips to hers, swallow all the sounds she would make, feel her hair under his fingers and he’s so discombobulated by her right now. Her stare is intense, and he says, dazed, “You are... Is it rude to say you're a mysterious person? Because you are...mysterious.”

“How so?” She asks softly.

He leans in closer to her, picks up a tendril of loosely curled hair. “Your honesty and stubbornness are what I like about you,” he says, low, aware of this being a moment and trying so hard to hold it, “but sometimes you’ll be so sweet. You’ll smile, or kiss me on the cheek, and I just...”

He trails off, not finishing his sentence. The meal, lain entirely forgotten around them, cools as the setting sun filters through the boughs of the trees around them, golden flecks and shapes dancing on their shaded silhouettes underneath. The evening seems to be holding in its breath, and he feels himself start to fall. Not like he’s ever fallen before, usually he falls for the idea of a girl, to have and to hold and then to let go. This is a slow spiraling into his doom, he’s sure of it. He takes in everything about her he can memorize, from the way her hair seems to be embellished with late sunlight, her green irises, the length of her lashes, her wrap dress against her slightly scarred chest, the perfect, generous bow of her lips...

“Sometimes, I feel like you can see right through me.” His voice is set with some aching he doesn’t recognize. He can’t tell anything else she’s thinking, but her expression is gentle. He has to ask. “Do you think you could ever...”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as a loud burst of music leaks through the alleyways, and the moment’s broken.

Distracted, he murmurs, “That’s probably the public dance they were going to have in the square, only a few blocks from here.”

* * *

They finish the meal in comparative leisure, Byleth choosing to try and ignore the moment before, or the tension it’s now baked into the rest of their time together. Brushed fingers, a heated glance from Sylvain, and Byleth tucks her hair behind her ears and blocks it out. _We’re in the middle of a war,_ she reminds herself. _And – this is not appropriate. _

The part of her that kissed him on the cheek seems to be immune to these objections.

“How did you find this place?” She asks him, after the conversation comes to a slight lull.

He taps his finger on his chin as he finishes off the rest of his glass of wine. “I used to come here to read, sometimes, or hide from girls.”

“It’s beautiful,” she says. “So, you never took any of your girls here?”

“Not a one,” he says, and she doesn’t let herself think about why he brought her here.

* * *

It’s still late fall, but the air is almost as balmy as a summer’s night; she feels the breeze whistle through her hair like a whisper. He leads her through the streets of Guilin into the roiling, chaotic square. She’s been at festivals, of course, and this pales in comparison to the last Garreg Mach function she attended, but it’s still a sight to see: an entire town, dancing and offering praise to the Goddess. The music is provided by several bands, combined into a makeshift orchestra. Despite the lack of polish, the instruments ring true, lively songs being played into instrumental dance pieces. She lets out a surprised, gleeful laugh.

“This is incredible,” she breathes.

He looks at her fondly, and before her, he seems to glow in the warm light of the torches and lanterns surrounding the entire area, and he grins and offers her his hand.

“Will you dance with me?”

Several thoughts go through her mind.

_don’t lead him on / he’s grown up / you can’t do this / everything will change_

But it’s too late. She can’t deny him anymore than she could sever the Beginning from her soul, and she takes his hand, soft, warm and he pulls her into his center of gravity. She lets him lead, and he’s strangely intoxicated on the idea, when so often he feels out of step with her. They whirl effortlessly around the square, his hand on her waist, and every so often he’ll smile and laugh in her ear.

“What’s so funny?” Byleth murmurs.

“I’m just happy,” he replies. Then he draws back to look down at her, and she’s both gratified and alarmed to see the yearning in his eyes, practically begging her. Before they know it, they’ve both twirled into a darker corner, further away from the square, faint music still playing in the background.

“We’ve stopped dancing,” she says, in an attempt to break the tension, but instead it just makes it worse, and he’s lit by the silver moon, and the heated glance he shoots her is enough to paralyze her on the spot.

“So we have,” he whispers, and they’re drawing closer and closer until feather soft, their lips touch, and she’s completely lost as the world falls away. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations that need to be had before more kissing, time passing, love letters, we learn more about Byleth, and some resolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a concussion recently, so lmk if anything seems off! I'm pretty lucid, but always good to double check.  
Also, we get risque near the end of this chapter, and y'all already know why I added a third one.  
Also, thank you for the comments and all the love on this fic!!! After I hit my head, I've been more irritable and cranky, but those comments and kudos make my day.

The kiss is chaste, and sweet, and she wants to touch more of him. But there’s a dull, rational, non-Sothis voice going: _ once a Casanova, always a Casanova. This is the boy who’s dated every girl in this town, and who’s to say you aren’t just another sucker? _

She steps back, forces herself to wrench away from the inviting warmth of him. In the moonlight, he looks like a romantic hero, from one of Ashe and Ingrid’s books. _ But this is real life. _

Dazed, he opens his eyes and looks at her, and she sees the hurt in his eyes before he turns and walks away and his face is shaded under foliage once more.

“Sylvain-”

He turns at the sound of her voice and his brown eyes are strangely luminous as he stands under the tree, bits of moonlight dancing across his figure. His voice comes out serious and bitter, and she’s only heard it like that once before. “I wish you were a worse person. Then maybe I could have a shot at being with you.”

Throat dry, Byleth’s voice coming out strangled, she says, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I know you’re too good for me, okay,” he says, putting his hand to his forehead and shaking his head. “I just - I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you or said that. I just realized that we could die at any point in this war. I didn’t want to go without knowing what it was like to kiss you. At least once.”

She shakes her head. “It’s lines like those that make me- I don’t think you’re beneath me, Sylvain, it’s that-”

“You don’t trust that I’m serious,” he breathes.

“Five years ago for you was two weeks ago for me, Sylvain,” she says, in lieu of anything else. “How can I trust you?”

He’s had this conversation before. In fact, she’s been witness to a couple of them. Usually it ends up with him breaking the girl’s heart, but now he’s faced with the woman that he truly wants and his silver tongue is lacking. He opens his mouth and sound doesn’t come out. His reputation is deservedly shot, and he doesn’t know what to do to convince her. So he does what he can: tells her the truth. He takes a deep breath in and starts to speak.

“Byleth. I _ like _you. I haven’t liked most of the women I’ve gone out with, and that’s saying something because there’s been a lot.” He winces at her raised eyebrow. “Sorry. I’m trying to be honest. I’ve lied. I’ve cheated. I’ve been a jerk. And I know I don’t deserve a chance with someone as amazing as you, but I’m trying to be a man you can trust. I know that sounds like another one of my games, but it's true. I'll prove it to you. Ask me for anything.”

Her eyes soften throughout his speech, and there’s fireflies around them, hovering as if in anticipation for her reply. He waits on bated breath, as her contemplative silence drags on till she finally says, “Right now? Just...give me some time to adjust.”

He nods. “Okay....good. I can work with that. That gives me plenty of time to convince you that I have changed.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t expect you to wait for me to make up my mind.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He asks exasperatedly, throwing his hands up.

“Get what?”

_ That you’re worth waiting for. _

The music in the background is completely faded, as they verbally dance around each other. It’s getting chilly, and he sees her shiver for a second before he changes what he was going to say. “You’re cold. Come on. Let’s walk back. I wish I’d brought my jacket.”

Instead, as they pass the tiny park, he fishes the grey picnic blanket out from under the seat and wraps it gently around her shoulders. She gives him, hesitatingly, the tiniest of smiles, warm and lovely. He grins. Despite everything, she looks good in anything silver or ash.

They walk in silence until he breaks it. “If you want me to stop chasing you, just say the word and I’ll stop,” he says quietly.

They’re at the monastery before she seems to walk off on her own without even saying goodbye to him. Instead, she turns slightly to look at him over her shoulder and he’s sharply reminded of another moment five years ago, but utterly changed forever here. She’s wearing an enigmatic smile. “Maybe,” She allows herself to say.

“Maybe what, Byleth?” He calls to her, as they linger around the dormitories.

“Maybe you have a chance, rich boy,” and she walks off without a good night.

_ Still. Maybe. _

“That’s all I need,” he replies to thin air.

* * *

“You and Sylvain? _ Professor!”_

“Dorothea, _ please,_ not so loudly,” Byleth begs. They’re in her room having a late night wine session the next night, wherein Dorothea demanded all the details of her date with Sylvain.

“I wonder if I can pitch this story to the playwrights back in Enbarr when this war has finally ended. The flirtatious yet secretly brooding noble, carrying the heavy burden of his birthright. The mysterious and sharp commoner, blessed by the Goddess with immense power, and their unlikely love that blossoms despite the horrors of war.”

“Dorothea,” Byleth says, amused despite herself, “this is the part where you tell me this is a bad idea.”

“I’ve talked to him a few times, and he’s surprisingly self aware. You and I both know he hates the women who want to use him. But for you and him, that’s never been a problem. He seems to be really, sincerely trying. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I think he deserves a shot. But if he hurts you, I will break him in two.”

“Goddess, look at us,” Byleth laughs. “Me and Sylvain, and you and Ferdinand? What is it about men that we started out hating?”

“Fate is truly a cruel and capricious mistress, Professor,” Dorothea sighs.

“But she’s definitely one hell of a storyteller,” Byleth replies, taking a gulp of wine. Briefly, they toast to the mystery of chemistry and love. 

“Very true.”

“What do I do? About Sylvain, I mean.”

“You could just sleep with him to get it out of your system,” Dorothea suggests, smirking behind her wine glass and she watches her usually composed friend and ally nearly choke on her drink.

_“Dorothea!”_

Sparkling green eyes lit up with mirth as the songstress collapsed into giggles. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve just always wanted to say something as scandalous as that to you, just to see your reaction. You’ve never been interested in anyone for as long as I’ve known you, Professor. I have to say, it’s fascinating to watch.”

Byleth shakes her head in disbelief. “It’s a crush, nothing more, on both sides. He’s - blinded by schoolboy nostalgia. Besides, we both know how he operates. As soon as his tricks fail him, he moves on to the next girl. He’ll forget about me soon enough. Besides, we’re at war, and I’m trying to bring Dimitri back to the brink of sanity. We can’t afford any distractions. Not when lives are at risk.”

“You don’t have to make yourself a martyr of love for our sake, Professor,” Dorothea says firmly. “But I do admit you have a point. I guess we’ll see how much our resident philanderer has changed. Since we’re all here for the foreseeable future.”

* * *

**(Months pass…) **

Someone passes her the letter mid-meeting, she forgets about it until dinner time and fishes it out of her cloak pockets.

When she sees his slanted, yet surprisingly legible calligraphy on the page, she flips the envelope over while in the dining hall. She looks around to find him until his red hair catches her eye. The obvious weight of his gaze hasn’t escaped her recently, and as she glances towards him she sees him avidly start talking at Felix from across the table, who looks ready to murder him.

Then he looks back at her, winks, and waves. She sticks her tongue out at him. He laughs.

Tomorrow, she’s going on a campaign without him. But she makes a note to read it in between battles.

* * *

Blood splattered, exhausted, gloves worn with soot and dirt, they settle in for camp as Annette makes a fire. Byleth walks until she finds an appropriate rock to sit on by a nearby lake, the full moon beaming down on her. It’s early winter, and her breath comes out in hazy curlicues. 2 months or so have sped past since their date, and they’ve barely had time to breathe in between monastery repair, war efforts and trying to break through to Dimitri. It’s cold, and she finds herself wanting to talk to him suddenly, ask him how he deals with it since he grew up in Faerghus. She breaks the wax seal on the envelope and begins to read.

* * *

_Dear Byleth,_

_ I feel like I barely see you outside of fighting now. There’s this nickname the troops have got for you, by the way. The Ashen Demon. Knowing you, you probably love it because of how intimidating it makes you sound. You’re always beautiful, but you’re beautiful when you fight, too - focused, graceful, and - I’ll stop there. _

_ Anyway, I’m writing you this letter because I know you’re busy - I’ve seen you in and out of war councils and running around the monastery all the time - but I am formally inviting you out to tea. You deserve a break. C’mon. I promise not to flirt with you excessively, unless you spend the whole tea staring at me. Then I can’t be blamed for the words I might say, to keep your eyes on me. _

_ On the likely chance you turn me down, please at least do me a favor and sit down somewhere nice and quiet, and read this letter. There are some things I forgot to say on our date. An awful lot happened those five years you were gone. There were so many times I wished you were around. I'm really glad you're back. You and your skills are worth more than a whole army. _

_ Sometimes I think about that. How much we all depended on you, even when you were only a couple years older than us. You took it in your stride, too. I used to think people like you didn’t exist outside of stories. Ashe said something that made me think of you, too - he said Felix was sharp, but secretly kind and caring, like a hero in one of his favorite books. That’s probably why you two get along so much, huh? Sometimes he looks at you, wistful, and I think you remind him of Glenn. Glenn was - he would pick fights, say whatever he thought no matter what, and that’s definitely you. No offense, Byleth. But I also know you and Caspar still regularly get into fights together. <strike>Wait, is that like, your thing? Do you like him? Never mind.</strike> _

_ Anyway, what I’m trying to say is - you’ve helped everyone you know, whether it’s me and mopping up my brother’s mess or luring Bernadetta out of her room or saving Ingrid from a shitty marriage or even right now, trying to save Dimitri’s soul. Not even that, but you’re funny, and crazy, and you actually like talking about art as much as I do, which is a plus. You’re amazing, and you know you’re amazing. _

_ I know this all sounds like my standard form of flattery, but I will convince you that I am completely sincere and serious about you. Look, I’m even inviting you to tea without mentioning the words marriage, love, or any of the other hot garbage that usually came out of my mouth five years ago when I was an utter idiot hellbent on trashing my own reputation. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Sylvain Jose Gautier _

* * *

A couple days later, on a Tuesday, Cyril gives Sylvain a missive. His heart jumps. He hasn’t seen her since she got back from her campaign, and he’s been anxiously awaiting a reply, or a glance, or a sighting of her. He finds a secluded corner and rips the letter open. 

* * *

_Dear Sylvain,_

_ Thank you for the letter. It’s the first thing that made me smile in days. I do like the nickname, actually. You know better than anyone how much I like invoking fear in my enemies. _

_ You know, every time I think I’ve figured you out, you surprise me. But that’s been my experience here at the monastery, that no one is who they seem on the surface. Including (especially?) me. _

_ I used to be jealous of you too. I know, I know, you just sent me this wonderful and sweet letter and I’m already ruining it, but you like my honesty, right? But I feel like I owe you at least something of an explanation. _

_ You had Ingrid and Dimitri and Felix as childhood friends and I grew up on a lonely path. My father was a wonderful man, sometimes a more laid back parent than Seteth would have approved of, and the mercenaries were kind, but I never had a family like yours. Though I realize, after now knowing what your biological family is like, that I was being petty. _

_ Admittedly, I would catch you in the training grounds annoying Felix and watch Dimitri or Ingrid try to calm you both, and feel a pang. I assumed, then, that your heart had closed it’s doors long ago. You had your people, and they would never pretend to like you for your Crest. You were set. Why really add anyone else into the equation? That’s why I never took you seriously back then. _

_ Maybe that was true five years ago, but I can see it’s not anymore. You’ve changed. You’re older, more serious, angrier, you fight almost as hard as Felix and I. But you’re also more sincere now than I ever remember you being. Sweeter, too. I’m trying not to be swayed, but you’re making it difficult, Gautier. _

_ You’re captivating when you fight, too, you know that? _

_ Anyway, thank you. I’ve heard much about Glenn, and I probably would’ve liked him a lot, or tried to fight him immediately, as well you know. _

_ Caspar has grown up to be very handsome. Perhaps I should consider it. You can try and dissuade me over tea, if you want. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Byleth Eisner _

* * *

He pens a reply as fast as he can. It’s probably the shortest letter he’s ever sent. 

* * *

_Dear Byleth,_

_ Friday night, meet me in my room? _

_ Also, I’m better looking than Caspar. I’ll fight him, if that’s what you’re into. Sure, he may have jumped ship from the Empire to help us and is fighting his own family, but - fine, I won’t fight Caspar, because I am just that honorable of a guy. _

_ I look forward to dissuading you. _

_ Yours, _

_ Sylvain _

_P.S. Captivating? You've been watching me while we fight? I can't tell if you're teasing me or not, but I'm going to remember you said that. _

* * *

**Friday**

He’s leaning against the doorway, and she almost laughs at the sight of him. He’s trying so hard to be suave, and it’s blatant. She suppresses a nervous giggle. She’s never been in his room before, under this context, and even though enough time has passed, she still feels like it’s a taboo to cross this threshold. She brushes past him in her academy uniform while subtly checking him out. He’s dressed head to toe in black, looking as ever the part of the dark knight he is on the battlefield.

His room is covered in candles, and he has the usual snacks and tea. It’s an odd role reversal, as he pours the tea - Bergamot, one of his favorites, and hers as well - and they start chatting away. It’s a little awkward at first, after so long of not talking, but they’re suddenly falling over each other trying to fill in the gaps of their absence. He’s telling her the story of when he accidentally flirted with the gatekeeper and hasn’t been able to march past the gates without wanting to hide.

“He took it really well, that’s the thing,” he explains. “He said he was flattered, but he couldn’t return my affections, and - okay, stop laughing.”

“How did you accidentally flirt with him?” She asks between peals of laughter.

“I was aiming for the girl in front of him and my wires got crossed.”

She snickers. “Ingrid didn’t apologize to him for you? You know, you really should pay her. Forget giving Dimitri the crown, that woman deserves it for all the bullshit she’s had to fix for you three.”

“Harsh, but fair.”

Tea gives way to wine as the night goes on, and she’s having an actual conversation with him. He’s complaining about Ailell before she rolls her eyes and says, “You Northerners are so _ weak_,” and gesturing with her hands before continuing on about how when she lived in Dagda, it was swelteringly hot and humid and -

“You lived in Dagda?”

“Before the Dagda and Brigid War, yeah. The southern part, surrounded by tropical forest, grew up in Knidos, a port city. It’s actually probably still there. Remote enough that the war didn’t touch it. There’s pockets of civilization still left, on a big continent like that: the Empire didn’t crush it completely.”

“I never hear you talk about your past, Byleth,” he says. “I...guess I never asked.”

“You’re asking now, aren’t you?”

“So what was it like?”

“I miss the food,” she says. “I miss summers that lasted forever. You’d wake up sweat soaked in your bed, but that’s just how it was. It was a city based on trade, but also on the arts. I’d walk past the odeum - a theater built just for music and poetry - everyday and hear the songs. I wish I could take you and Dorothea there - both of you would love it.”

“Why not go back after the war?”

She pauses. “Because what if I’m wrong? What if it’s all just ruins now?”

“We’ve rebuilt Garreg Mach. Why not your hometown?”

She eyes him suspiciously over the table. “Stop saying wise things. It’s creeping me out."

* * *

It’s been easy. So easy, just to fall into this warm night with him, unwind and relax and they end up talking about anything and everything. He loves making her laugh, and she loves needling him, even as she hesitantly opens up at the same time.

The candles have burned down low, as she begins to sip what is her last glass of the night. There’s a lull in the conversation and she feels the mood shift before he says, “I never knew you were jealous of me.”

“I didn’t really know you then.” She says it with a sly smile, trying for a light-hearted jab. If there’s one defense mechanism they both have, it’s trying to hide feelings with humor.

“You know me now.” He says, a statement, not a question. His amber honey eyes pierce through her. She nearly shivers. If she didn’t think he was serious before this, she knows he is now. Time’s passed - and he hasn’t given up at all. “So, Byleth.” He says, with a forced casualness, but the look in his eyes is hard with intention. “You think Caspar’s good-looking, huh?”

She’s saying the words before even thinking about them. “Why, are you jealous?” She winces. _ Oof. No, he hates jealousy. Stupid question to ask. _

“Is it uncool if I say yes?” he asks, shaking his head with a furtive smile. “I hate it when people are jealous. But I think I get it now, when I look at you and him and know that you’re…”

“I was just teasing,” she says softly. “I don’t like Caspar.” She smiles. “But you’re cute, you know, when you get all...envious.”

He leans back and stares at her so intensely she feels naked under his gaze, like for once he’s seeing through her. She, in turn, drinks her fill of him visually: he’s always been utterly gorgeous, red curls spilling out to complement his brown eyes and high cheekbones. The years have added a maturity to him, his lean, muscular frame bulkier and taller. She avoids his gaze for the most part, but he notices her noticing him, and a smoking hot smile curls around his lips. Ooooh, she’s in so much trouble. She feels her cheeks warm and she asks, “What are - is there something on my face?”

“I’m wondering how to get you to flirt with me again,” he replies. Then, because he’s tipsy and too bold, he adds, “Really, I’m trying to figure out how I can kiss you again. It’s been distracting me all night.”

His words have an immediate effect as she flushes, opens her mouth, and then looks down at her lap, blushing. Then she looks up at him, impossibly, contradictorily demure, and takes his hand as she stands up. Mutely he follows, until they’re standing across from each other, his hand in hers. The golden candlelight frames the contours of her face and he thinks: Goddess, she’s beautiful.

“Sylvain,” she says. “Can I - will you - I want to -”

He doesn’t let her finish. “Yes,” and they crash into each other, and he’s lost in the warmth of her mouth, and he’s been dreaming of this so long it doesn’t feel real. But it’s truly Byleth, and he can’t think of anything but kissing her and having her and this is the woman who changed his life, and he needs her. She smells like tea and wine mixed with a particular blend of her own making, grassy from all her time outside together with lavender shampoo. The light blooming out of her searing him until he can’t think anymore. 

He licks at the seam of her lips until she opens them with a gasp, and his arms come up to settle around her waist. Then he bites down on her bottom lip, and she lets out a whimper that makes him want to consume her entirely. He fists his hands in the fabric of her skirt, clenching and unclenching until he brings the call of her hips right up against his, feeling his cock harden and rise against her stomach as she rocks against him. 

At some point he lets out a whimper of his own as she’s bunching up her hands in his hair, and he uses what little willpower he has left to back her up against the wall next to his bed, and starts running his hands up and down her body, stopping just before her skirt ends and then back up to brush tantalizingly at her ribs.

He pulls away from her for a second. Just to enjoy the sight of her, gorgeous and in his arms, kissed to oblivion. Her expression is dazed and when she looks at him her eyes are full of unspoken want, and he dives in again before drawing back as she chases after him herself and pants against his mouth. 

“Tell me,” he rasps into her mouth. “Tell me you want me, Byleth, please.” 

“I want you,” and he kisses her next breath from out under her as he pins her against the wall, as her tight nipples drag against the muscular planes of his chest. He reaches down to tweak one between his fingers and she moans into him and wiggles, and he wants to fuck her and make love to her on every surface available. But he forces himself to slow down, gentle his hands, blunt his desire and she looks up at him with a question in her gaze.

“I’m - I got carried away,” he says and his voice is still husky, and her eyes flutter closed for a moment and he can see her trying to compose herself. “I - don’t want you thinking of me as some insatiable beast but if we go any further I’m not going to be able to let you go. Just - are you really sure you want this? Want me?” He’s keenly aware of every point of contact between them, and though it hurts, he steps away for both of them to have some breathing and thinking room. The air rushes in between them, cold and cruel. 

He’s surprised when she leans forward and gently caresses his cheek with her fingers and brushes a tendril of his hair away from his forehead. “Sylvain,” she says thickly. “I tried to resist, tried to reason myself out of it, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Really?”

She shuts her eyes. “I’m not as good at - showing that I care but I like you. A lot. It’s been distracting.” 

“Oh?” He takes a step forward, bringing them flush again. “Then by all means, let me distract you even more.” 


	3. Chapter Three

Despite his bold words, the next kiss starts out slower. The desperate edge bleeds away. The desire’s still there, simmering under the surface, but he’s a little wary of himself after losing control like that. Fast and meaningless is his only speed - and he doesn’t want to be that man anymore. 

At some point, his brain kicks back in and he breaks away from her lips, as good as she feels. He leans against her forehead then draws back, suddenly aware of how small the room is and how dangerous this situation has become. 

She lays a hand against his cheek and gazes at him, so, so clearly nervous but cautiously fond, and he wonders for a second if she’s ever...done this before. Her face is open, though, and he places his hand over hers and closes his eyes. She takes it gently into hers and says, “C’mon. Let’s take a walk, get some air.”

Heady and heated as it is in his room, he thinks that’s a good idea. 

* * *

Fresh air and night’s breeze feels good on his skin as they weave in and out of the hedge maze, her verdant hair coruscating moonlight. They stop for a second and loiter languorously around the gazebo, breathing in the sheer aliveness of the foliage around them and the dogs and cats wandering around like animal kings and queens of their territory. He wants to bottle the scene and tuck it away for safekeeping. He’s always loved the monastery, how warm and inviting it is compared to Faerghus, in more ways than one. He leans against one of the gazebo’s supporting pillars with his best alluring lean, even though he knows that his tricks don’t work on her and they never have. As if reading his mind she leans against the adjacent one in perfect imitation and meets his eyes, her gaze twinkling with silent amusement. 

The moment is perfect, so of course he has to go and ruin it. 

He blurts out, unthinking, “I haven’t been with anyone in years.” 

Her face freezes for a second before she looks away, and he thinks he catches a hint of surprise in her expression. A loaded silence hangs in the air, at odds with the fireflies gently floating around them, rustling of grass and susurrus of crickets. The quiet seems to drag on forever and he’s thinking: _ Goddess, I wish I knew how to keep my mouth shut sometimes. Ingrid would have a fit. _

She looks at him, expression just the tiniest bit unsure but still noticeable enough for him to catch. Her voice unsticks from her throat to croak out, hesitant, “Did you wait?”

“Did I wait? Did I _ wait?_ Did I wait, she asks me,” he murmurs to himself. “I came back here every year. I knew I should’ve kissed you before we got on that battlefield and I blew it. I used to stand right here-” he points to a spot in front of the gazebo, “and imagine you laughing at me.”

“Was I _ that _ mean to you back then?” She says with a half smirk instead of what she really feels, which is, _ you’ve wanted to kiss me for that long? _

He shrugs. “It was sexy.” He shakes his head again, and doesn’t notice her faint flush. He gives a little laugh. 

“Did I _ wait_,” he says, almost with wonder. He pushes off the gazebo’s pillar with his left foot and starts walking towards the cathedral, and she follows. They pause on the narrow bridge between the rest of the castle and the cathedral attached to the Goddess Tower, and Byleth can almost close her eyes and see Ingrid or Ferdinand loitering here, enjoying the view. 

They settle on opposite sides of each other, leaning against the battlements. She stretches long and slow in the moonlight, and he’s lax against the surface behind him as always. It’s almost easy to pretend the kissing didn’t happen, except it’s all he can think about and what it means, and about everything that’s transpired between them.

She must be on some similar wavelength because she takes a deep breath and says-

“When did you realize you liked me? I thought you hated me until that night at the Ball.”

“I thought I did, too.”

Silence. He can feel her waiting. 

“I _ wanted _to hate you. It was so easy to hate you for the life I never had. But you absolutely tore me apart.” He says casually. 

Her eyes widen. 

“You were a stranger that came into our lives, asking all these questions, making me think about what it would be like to be free from all of this...just when I thought I’d let go of that dream,” he says. “But even though you didn’t like me - you still saw me. You reached out your hand to me like it was nothing. You actually took me seriously. My own _ parents _ don’t take me seriously. You turned me upside down, you know that? I was going to coast through the rest of my life until I met you. You _ devastated _ me.” 

“Sylvain-”

His brown eyes zero in on her, dark and intent, and she nearly swallows. 

“I was ready to be nothing more than a joke, until you.” He looks at her like lightning, like an arrow caught mid-flight trapped in his eyes.

“Give yourself more credit,” she manages to get out. “You grew up in those five years all on your own, without me.”

“I didn’t choose that,” he points out. “The war chose for me.”

“Yes, and you chose to be a good man. Which you are, underneath all that bluster. We do the same thing. We fight, we laugh, we hide, we dodge and weave with our words so that no one can tell who we really are.”

A beat of silence. 

“Except each other.” She finishes.

Sylvain finally feels the abyssal cavern of void close up between them, the gap that’s been there the whole time they’ve known each other. He wants to touch her so badly, but he’s afraid of destroying this tentative equilibrium they’ve formed. They regard each other in the moonlight, and he’s suddenly thankful for the open space. Everything feels compressed into this conversation, too important and too much. 

“So to answer your question,” he says slowly, “I don’t know when I fell for you. The Ball, maybe even back further. I never had a chance - you split me open. You wrecked me. You did that without even _ thinking _. What would happen if you knew how much I-”

_ love you. _

Damn his talking without thinking. His mouth doesn’t seem to be able to form any more words but from the gentle look on her face, he can tell she understands, just a little bit. 

So he does what he does best and deflects, tosses her a query like a lit match soaring towards kindling just to even the odds. “And what about you? When did your feelings begin to change?”

She looks down for a moment, then back up at him, eyes hardened. 

“I was determined to hate you,” she begins. “Rich, intelligent and handsome? I was resolved to despise you on principle. It didn’t help that you seemed to peddle empty words like the English language might drop dead at any moment. This- this wasn’t supposed to happen.” She shakes her head.

He laughs, brittle. “Never let it be said you mince words.”

Her gaze catches, and softens, as she gives him an apologetic look, but she barrels on like she can’t stop or the words will dry up before she can say them. “You hated me back, which suited me fine. But the night of the Ball...I realized you saw me, too. I thought I’d always be an outsider looking in, but you knew me despite everything between us. After...after I went through my own transformation, I watched you with new eyes. I’d see you whisper advice to Ashe in between book club - yes, I know you were trying to ‘wingman’-” (Sylvain briefly interjects, “Like you weren’t doing the same for Ingrid!”) 

“And I’d see you trying to lure Bernadetta out of her shell, even if it was just through flirting. You would bug Ingrid, Dimitri and Felix to stop training when you knew they were pushing themselves too hard and invite them out to town under the guise of your womanizing, even when Felix threw abuse at you. You never faltered. You were a lout and a jerk, too, but I could see the good man underneath it all. I got to know the secret, sincere you. Who’s angry and skeptical and bitter and yet still hopeful somehow, and loyal to those who earn it.” She smiles, lost in wistfulness.

“Then I woke, and you were there, more handsome than ever, grown up, throwing yourself on an arrow for me. But I was scared. I’d never seen you serious about anyone. But you-” She closes her eyes, groaning. “_Words_. They’re coming, I swear. I can’t even tell when or how, only that- it got worse as time went on, after we kissed. Even with all this violence and the gloom - you were- are- radiant. I look forward to seeing you, every day - in the dining hall, in battle, catching those smiles you seem to reserve just for me. I - I couldn’t stop myself from looking for you. From hoping against all hope that this time, you meant it. I-”

She looks askance for a minute and then looks back at him, words having left her. He feels his heart reel, as if trying to heave out of his chest. Even in his wildest dreams, back then he never imagined she was watching him in return. Her eyes, virescent and vivid, are genuine and bright. She opens her mouth to say something more, but he can’t hold it in any more and cuts her off with a pained groan as he presses her up against the battlements, holding her tight in the vice of his arms. She settles her arms around him, surprised. 

“Goddess, you really are going to be the death of me,” he murmurs half delirious in her hair. She laughs, a bubble of vibrant sound, all earlier hesitation forgotten.

“Let a girl finish,” she whispers in his ear and he shivers. “I’ll say it as many times until it sinks in, Gautier: I want _ you_.”

He closes his eyes, swallows down his sudden compulsion to yell and dance and sing like a lunatic. “I watched for you too. I waited. Every morning, it was like the day wouldn’t start until you swept in, hair mussed from the day’s exploring. It took me years to even think about moving on, and then you crashed back into my life and heart like a hurricane. You’d come into a room, or come in to share a meal with whoever was lucky enough that day and I’d think: ah, yes, the sun rose today and now, I can get started.”

When he dares himself to finally look at her after all that, her face is aflame, and expression irrevocably tender. 

“I can’t look at anyone else, I can’t _ think _about anyone else,” he says softly and seriously. “You’ve robbed me of my senses. You are the most capable, amazing woman I’ve ever known. Please, I beg you, deny me or accept me; either way, put me out of my misery, my lady.”

She smacks him lightly on the arm, as he tips her face towards his with his hand skimming her jaw, marveling at how her skin feels like warm silk. “You glib, dramatic, romantic _ dope_. Did you steal that last line from a play? I know you. I’ve seen the worst of you and the best of you, and I’m still here. I choose _ you_, Sylvain Jose Gautier. No one else.” She closes her eyes, and he is so, so, so deep in it and head-over-heels and grateful. There’s an ache in his chest, his self hatred gnawing at his heels, but he knows Byleth. He knows that above all else she would never, ever lie, or fake this, or pretend. 

Right before their lips brush, he murmurs, “It’s only ever been you, for me.” 

This kiss is deep, gradual and feels real, grounded in the revelations they’ve had about each other tonight. He wants to take his time, now. He wants to remember everything about this. He’s never been in love like this, everything in him set aflame. Her velvet, generous lips, the siren sound of her sighs, he could drown in her forever. She feels so warm, and at some point he coaxes her lips open and she gasps, her hands coming up to grip at the hair on the back of his head and then he’s lost in the wet, delicious feel of her mouth as they draw out the kiss, languid and explosive all at once. She tastes like wine and tea, still, their tongues twining hot, slick, his hands fisting up in her soft, soft hair. 

Her hips twitch forward uncontrollably. She wants him so much, the simmering heat pooling in her since the second he kissed her earlier now brought back to a maddening blaze. 

He presses her even harder against the battlements, feeling her melt into him. Unable to resist, he breaks the kiss to nip and suck at her neck. Her sharp inhale is all he needs to look up at her under his long lashes, a smirk playing around his lips. She looks thoroughly kissed and utterly sinful, and while he wants slow, he also wants _ everything. _

“We-_ ah _-we should...go inside,” Byleth tries to say, as he places a line of kisses at her collarbone. Her voice is as he’s never heard it before, breathy and trembling. 

“Yes’m,” he says, though he can’t resist peppering her face with kisses before he steps away. Byleth laughs, a delightful sound he can’t get enough of, and he securely takes her hand in his and they run off the bridge like a couple of teenagers, giggling, low, pleasant rumbling laughter being whipped away by the wind. 

* * *

He’s on her again as soon as she turns from shutting the door to her room, a mere thought of hers already using magic to light a few candles around them. They’re kissing deeply, and he draws his hand down under her knee and wraps her leg around him, his hardening cock pressing against her center. _ Goddess, clothes, why are they still wearing clothes? _ She rocks against him experimentally and he moans into her mouth, and emboldened, she shifts her hips until all that she can think about is the growing ache between her legs and how good his cock feels. 

He’s panting against her mouth when he breaks away to beg, “Please, please let me get you out of your uniform,” and she’s nodding automatically before his shaking hands are on the buttons, barely managing to undo them before shucking off her shirt. He takes off his own shirt with an impatient gesture. They openly stare at each other; he’s beautifully toned, some scars only serving to accentuate his muscled torso, and in turn he drinks her in, soft and curved but still with abs that rival his own. He feels his mouth watering at the pale, creamy skin he’s only ever dreamed about, laid bare and perfect in low candlelight, tracing down to her pert brown nipples ending in lovely points of her breasts.

She wants, in turn, to hook her fingers into the dips of his hips, feel the muscles flex under her hands. She feels like one long river of craving. She gasps when he places his hand on her hip and brings them together again; skin-on-skin contact a pleasurable shock. 

To him, she feels like gold afternoon sunlight against his skin, like being in a warm lake except indescribably better. He never wants to let her go. He closes his eyes with the pleasure of feeling her quivering body against his, her nipples tight, tempting, dragging back and forth against his desperate skin until he can’t think. He draws her face towards his and kisses her senseless, tongue tracing her lips before a growl emanates from the back of his throat and he rucks up the material of her skirt again to haul her against him. Walking backwards, they fall into bed without realizing that’s where they were headed - he lands on top of her. As they descend not-too-gracefully she lets out a small exclamation as her back hits the mattress. She looks up at him as he starts up on his elbows, towering over her. The smoldering smirk he has on his face is enough to send her into a scarlet blush. She wants to memorize his face just like this, and as the minutes tick by and they look at each other with stark devotion, the moment's rapid, hormonal hunger ebbs away, giving into fervent tenderness.

“Hi,” he says, for lack of anything else.

“Hi,” she replies fondly. He flops over to her left, then props himself up on one elbow, looking at her still. In the candlelight, he’s even more gorgeous, wreathed in low, pulsing golden light and chiaroscuro, eyes like stars. She shakes herself a little. _ I’ve been spending too much time around Ignatz, to be thinking poetry like that. _

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, as he lazily strokes her left arm with his hand, perfectly content to ogle her shamelessly and openly for now. Her full, kissable mouth slightly parted, she looks to be in deep contemplation. “I’m loving all the new facial expressions I’ve been seeing tonight, but that one makes me curious.”

“You’re beautiful,” she says shyly. “That’s all.”

Despite everything that’s happened tonight, that’s what makes him finally flush. He’s heard an endless string of filthy nothings and loquacious empty compliments from both men and women alike, done way too much fooling around, but two words from her completely undo him. He splutters, totally caught off guard. 

“You- I- you’re going to make my heart give out,” he says accusingly. She laughs and leans over to kiss him. Each brush of lips is heady enough to make him want to gasp, overwhelming in the best kind of way. Everything feels new, instead of a practiced dance he’s done before - his hands start slowly roaming all over her body, tracing her many scars, exploring her then reaching and sliding off her skirt and tossing it to the side, brushing his knuckles against her tightening nipples in a seductive tease. He feels the age-old urge to accelerate - to take things further, except he’s content to just lie here with her, remind himself that slow is something he should learn, and he wants to, for her. He doesn’t want a hurried, passionate tryst. He wants to savor this moment, even though Goddess strike him down for how much he wants her, so much so that he could die. 

Eventually, she stirs from their kissing, eyes half-closed, breath caught, and he has to stop himself from forgetting any sense of control and just burying himself in her right then and there. She asks, almost sleepily, “Do you not want to-”

“I want to,” he says, all in a rush. “Trust me, I want to. I want everything. I’ve never wanted anything more, except - I don’t want to be hasty. I want to do what I’ve never done, and- do this right. When we have sex, I want it to not be while we’re living under the threat of death, and war, and fear, or shadowed by my past behavior. I want to be able to enjoy you fully, with no axe above our heads. Right now, I just want to revel in the fact that you're here, with me, and we're alive and together. That's more than enough.”

He pulls her into his arms, tucks her into the cradle of his embrace so tight she feels totally safe and cherished. “However, when we win, _then_,” he says in a husky growl right beside her ear, “I plan to make you come, and come, and come, and we’ll never leave this bed.”

Her voice sounds muffled, and flustered, when she replies under a curtain of green hair, “Ah-um...I-yes. Okay.” He feels a wicked grin begin to spread on his face, then.

“Embarrassed, sweetheart?”

“Go away,” she mutters petulantly, and he can see the blood rush to her face again in between strands of green hair. “It’s not fair how hot you’re being right now.”

She feels, rather than hears, the laugh that resonates in his chest and hers. “You,” he says, “are walking temptation in those tights, so I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

They snuggle, and cuddle, half-naked, murmuring every so often any thought that comes to mind, free and comfortable with each other like never before. At some point, right before Sylvain starts to fall asleep, Byleth looks up at him with shining eyes and says, “I love you.”

The three words pierce him like a bolt of Thoron. “You- love me?”

“Yes,” she says, mouth set as if she’s ready to be rejected. “I love you. I am ridiculously, most assuredly, completely in love with you, if it wasn’t already blindingly obvious. You don’t have to say anything, I know it’s early-”

“I’ve loved you since I was a teenager,” he says quietly. “I’d do anything for you. If we're together, I don't even care if I stay locked up inside for the rest of my life. If you told me you didn't want me to look at another woman, I'd go blind for you. It’s...surreal, to know that you love me too. I want to scream it from the rooftops, actually.”

“Oh, by the Saints, don’t,” she says, grinning. “We’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Exactly.”

They fall asleep together, blissfully happy.

* * *

After the final momentous battle and their victory, he proposes to her while they’re eating dango on a bench, in front of the very same dango stand from all those years ago. She throws her dango stick at him, and it takes a couple more times but after some badgering, she finally accepts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(Postscript End Card)**  
Dorothea Aegir nee Arnault, famed songstress of the Mittelfrank Opera Company, writes their legendary love story into a beloved opera, much to the archbishop’s chagrin. At some point, during the first viewing of said opera with the merrily engaged couple, it is said that the archbishop stood up in all her divine, blessed glory and heckled from below, “That is _not_ how it happened! I did not swoon! And where did this shirtless lake scene come from? Why is the dango stand owner suddenly a love interest?!” and Faerghus dignitaries, including her fiance (who had secretly suggested some of the edits) and the King himself who had blessed their union, had to stop her from storming onstage and fighting the actors.  
\---  
Wow, guys. I really don't know what to say. This has become the longest, most popular fic I've ever written: what started as a humorous drabble of Byleth roasting Sylvain has become my favorite romance I've written so far. After a concussion, and months of writing, and rewriting, this is finally complete. I'm kind of sad! I would love to keep writing about these two forever, and may one day again pick up the thread. Maybe post-war adventures? Maybe Crimson Flower route? (part of why I started this is because Sylvain in Crimson Flower breaks my heart.) I am so grateful for everybody's kudos, comments and love. Some of y'all may not be entirely happy that they don't have sex, but I thought about it, and tbh this feels better to me. You may disagree! That's O.K.   
I incorporated some of Ingrid's and Dorothea's romances in this fic - as well as just some headcanons, and I could go on about the inspirations for writing this, but I'll just leave it at: thank you for being on this wild ride with me lmao.


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